Page 59 of Top Shelf

He’s too easy to live with in small, caring ways. There’s a jar in the pantry that he’s stocked with pistachios, and after I mentioned in passing that I woke up thirsty once, there’s now water by my bedside every night.

This morning, I wake because Viktor is trying to leave the bed without disturbing me, which would be a lot easier for him if my leg weren’t hooked over his thigh.

I keep my eyes closed and pretend I’m still asleep, because this feels like the kinder option for both of us. The pillow border has once again surrendered, and my traitor body has migrated across the mattress with a knee resting in deeply unauthorized territory.

Viktor is warm and still beside me, his breathing even in a way that makes me think he’s been awake for a while. But his movement tells me two things at once. First, he’s trying very hard not to touch me any more than necessary. And second, there are certain biological situations involved in sharing a bed with a shirtless man at dawn, and I’m mature enough not to mention them while also being absolutely not mature enough to not notice.

He slides his arm free from above my head, eases my knee back onto my side, and then slowly rolls himself off the bed. I don’t open my eyes, because that is my contribution to the dignity of this marriage.

Water rushes in the bathroom a moment later, and I lie there staring into the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of him moving around. A bottle cap snaps open. The shower pressure changes. Then, low enough that I might’ve imagined it, Viktor makes a rough sound in his throat.

A groan, maybe. Or a moan, if my brain is committed to ruining my life before seven in the morning. I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

Don’t fucking listen, Heidi. You do it too, you shower whore.

By the time he comes out fully dressed for practice, I’m standing in the kitchen pretending the coffee machine is fascinating. But really, I’ve already noticed the damp ends of his hair where it’s escaped his hair tie, the width of his shoulders beneath his hoodie, and the clean smell of soap still clinging to him.

Fuck. This is not sustainable.

He looks fully dressed, fully ordinary, and fully on his way to the rink, but my brain decides to relive the memory of his bare stomach under my palm. I ignore it by sliding his espresso toward him before he reaches for it.

His gaze drops to the cup, then lifts to me. “Thank you.”

“You take it like this every morning,” I say, wrapping both hands around my own mug. “I have pattern recognition skills.”

“Yes.” His mouth twitches. “You are very, very clever.”

The words are dry enough that I should roll my eyes, but instead I take a careful sip of coffee and let my mouth betray me.

“Dangerous thing to say to a woman before caffeine.”

“What?” His gaze holds mine over the rim of his espresso cup. “That you’re very clever?”

My stomach tightens. “You knew what you were doing.”

He drinks his coffee slowly, eyes still on mine, but there’s the smallest shift in his face, enough to make my pulse misbehave.

“Yes. I did,” he says simply, then he sets the cup in the sink and reaches for his gear bag. “You have Halbrook at nine?”

I stare after him.

He pauses at the door, his hand on the strap of his bag. “What?”

“You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

My hand goes to my hip. “Admit to teasing me with praise and then ask about my landlord.”

His mouth quirks. “You have many important things today.”

“I hate you a little.”

“No.” He opens the door, and the hallway light cuts across his shoulders. “You do not, min fru.”

Min what?

He leaves before I can close my mouth, taking his damp hair and his grey trackpants and that unnecessarily sexy confidence with him.